


Mamarrakhûn (Shield-brother)

by Meysun



Series: Mamarrakhûn (Shield Brother) [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: There is a Lake, in the Halls of Mandos, where all Souls end and all Souls mend. A Lake where those who passed away watch over those who live, year after year. Decade after decade, Thorin watches over his shield-brother. And one day Dwalin dies. And one day Dwalin joins him.
Relationships: Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Mamarrakhûn (Shield Brother) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/635876
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Mamarrakhûn (Shield-brother)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bodysnatch3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/gifts).



> Dear Bodysnatch3r, I hope you know how much I love your work and your words. So, when I stumbled over this little story, that I had written years ago and kept hidden, because my other stories did not reach that point... I realized that just now, I wanted to share the sense of closure - that special, lighted place where I want to bring my Thorin and my Dwalin one day. And I realized that, if I just kept it there, it might well never end up here where it belongs... And I think that, on AO3, it should definitely be your gift - because of the special light you manage to draw between the shadows of your stories. I hope you will like it.
> 
> Dear readers - I did not abandon my other stories. But I lost, very inconveniently, two rough sheets of paper where I scribbled a chapter - and now my Thrain pouts, while my Thorin asks me to dwell a bit more in Tharbad... I hope this story will help you to wait a bit more, because I am still there - daydreaming and wishing you all the best in your lives.  
> Till soon, much love, Meysun.

They find him there.

Standing alone close to the Lake that always reminds Frerin of Mirromere – _Khelêd-Zaram_ , where he lost his life and his brother.

Dwalin does not know the Lake yet, doesn't know that below its smooth surface, visions are floating like beneath a mirror, allowing those who left Middle Earth to watch over their loved ones, and see how they fare. He doesn't know that there has not been a single day, ever since Thorin discovered it, that he has not been standing there – watching, his eyes bright and intent, and his arms tightly folded around his chest.

Always watching.

Grieving, first, his face grim and his jaw set. Weeping when he saw their sister, silent tears running down his cheeks, not reacting to Frerin's tight embrace, not while he watched her. Only afterwards, burying his face into the crook of his brother's shoulder, allowing himself the comfort of sharing his grief, at last.

Sometimes frowning, bent upon the Lake, one knee on the ground and his fingers almost touching the edge of the water – so eager and desperate to see, watching the Mountain being rebuilt, slowly, his heart pounding in his chest just as if he was still alive.

Smiling when he saw the tower of Ravenhill crowded with _Bahazanâsh_ once more – and allowing his father to draw an arm around his waist, kissing his temple, gently leading him away, telling him in his own way that it does not matter. Does not matter that Arnóra's gift has faded, that there is no Dwarrow able to speak to the Ravens anymore, not now that their Dís has joined them, allowing Thorin's shattered Soul to mend almost fully.

Sometimes she joined him.

He would be sitting there, as so often, and she would kneel behind him so as to be able to rest her head against his shoulder, allowing their locks to mingle, her arms circling his chest. He loved that more than anything – save Frerin's bright smile, his mother's kisses and his father's hand on his neck... and Itô's black, warm gaze, his grandfather's crushing embrace, and the way his grandmother's eyebrows shoot up at his nephews' jokes, just like her nose crinkles whenever somebody happened to mention that Elvenking.

He loves them all so much. Sometimes it made him weep, when he was sitting there on the shore of that calm, clear Lake. It made him weep, because he had yearned for it his whole life, because he was still unused to not missing all these blessings – unused to _not_ having to pretend he didn't need them all more than life itself.

Dís would hold him tightly, not facing him, just brushing his cheek with hers. She would talk, softly, her words adding substance to the visions: who these Dwarrows were, how their voices rang and what their feelings had been. The decisions they had made, Dáin and her, so that the Mountain could become a place of safety and prosperity once more... Their annoyance at seeing some walls crumble, some pipes break, and the first broken smile she had not been able to withhold, when she had seen her fierce cousin's face being flushed by a pipe outburst, and heard him swear that at least, it had been _clean water_ and not some Dragon dung...

She did not seem to mind that her brother's eyes were closed, as she talked. That while she was there, he stopped gazing at the Lake, only listening to her voice, because it had been _her_ life... a part of her life where he had not been there, where she had stood alone and where grief had been ever present.

Yet she had borne it nobly, like a dark cloak of unvoiced shadows – focusing on the Dwarves still there, because she had more true wisdom and strength than anyone he knew.

Anyone save Dwalin.

They all knew. All knew why Thorin kept staring at the Lake, his fists balled and his breath catching in his chest – he knew wounds did not exist here in the Halls, that it was just an impression, a memory, that searing pain between his ribs, and yet...

Every time he caught a glimpse of him – and he was easy to spot, he was so tall, so incredibly tall, his tattoos shining on his bald head and his bushy eyebrows shielding his gaze – every time, Thorin could swear he felt it, that breath-taking pain in his chest, causing him to press his palm against his ribs, forcing himself to look.

Look at his friend. His best friend, his shield-brother, the Soul he had felt closest to, save his siblings. The only one who had seen him brought so low he could have turned from him, a thousand times, and who still stayed there.

Who stayed, held him, smiled at him, teased him, _touched_ him even when Thorin would have wanted him to beat him up and leave him shattered and bleeding on the ground, who huffed and got angry every single time he even hinted at him having the right to leave.

Who was always there.

Who was still there, a world away from him – who never stopped helping, acting and fighting for those who were there as well. Who was mourning, though, and never said a word, not since that night he had told him all he had ever wanted to say to him...

That night he had stood watch – but Thorin had not been able to see it, had not been able to hear his words, because he was still between two worlds, because the first days in the Halls, he had not been conscious, his shattered Soul claiming the right of a short oblivion...

But Frerin had. He had stood there, close to the Lake, his fingers entwined with Fundin's – watching Dwalin bathe and clothe his brother, swearing his oath of loyalty to him again, and again, in a thousand of caring gestures.

Frerin had cried, as he had heard his cousin – as he had watched his broad hands cradle Thorin's face, close the wound on his chest, and pay a heartfelt homage to every single scar and wound, seen or unseen. And Fundin had wept as well, because both knew that neither Thorin nor Dwalin would have managed to survive, without the other, back then after Azanulbizar, where they had both died...

But Dwalin was left alone – and so, ever since Thorin had been able to do so, ever since he had discovered the Lake, he would be found there, at some moment, every day, asking the clear, unmoving water to show him where Dwalin was. What he did, how he fared – if he was safe, and well. If he was not alone, if he had begun to tease again, if his rough voice was making someone smile, if his broad hands were ruffling some Dwarfling's hair once more...

They had all understood, the first day they had searched for Thorin and found him there – gazing at the Lake with so much pain in his eyes that it had made Frerin's breath catch... that it had actually made him yell at Mahal once alone in his room, asking in a voice that was breaking in his throat _why_ – why He still allowed his brother to suffer so much, why He was not doing _something_ , _anything_ so that Thorin was finally allowed to smile and rest...

And his Maker had answered, in a voice that was just as sad, that it was not in His power to prevent a Dwarrow from splitting his Soul when it came to loving.

Frerin knew it was true, and he also knew there were many forms of love, that the way Thorin had to stare down into that Lake did not mean that Dwalin was his One, or that he was yearning for his lips or his body as well as his Soul. He was yearning for Dwalin as a whole – as his best friend, his almost-brother, his rock in the shifting, hostile landscapes he had trod for so long.

His last light in the darkness.

He also knew that Thorin had split his Soul exactly as many times as he had loved – because his thundering, grim, closed-off brother _was_ , and ever had been, a fierce and jealous lover. He had lost a part of his Soul when their grandfather died – not their mother, not then, because Dís had been born at the same time and that Thorin's love simply shifted, that day.

Had lost half of it when Frerin had died – and the thought still made him cry, even now he had Thorin back and was able to bury his fingers in his hair, touch foreheads with him and talk and jest and chatter until he was laughing, until that deep, long-forgotten sound filled the Halls, making their nephews stare at them, bewildered.

Had lost another part when their father had vanished – but afterwards had found some of it back, once Fíli and Kíli were there to claim his love and care once more.

And once he died... Once he died – he still had managed to break it, somehow, that strange, passionate Soul of his. Had left part of it with Dís – making sure to keep the wound of leaving her alone raw and bleeding, until she joined them at last. And had left another with Dwalin – determinedly, not caring for the pain, simply entrusting it to his friend, offering him that last treasure as an acknowledgement of all he had received.

He had mended, though. Truly mended – because there was no way to fake recovery, in the Halls. Clear sight was bestowed upon each of Mahal's children, and words did not need to be twisted to give an illusion of strength, because every trace of judgement was gone.

And it had been wonderful to see fear's shadow vanish once and for all, in Thorin's gaze – that terrible fear of turning mad, again, of being unable to master his thoughts and turn to a raging, wounded beast he couldn't recognise... It had taken a long time – and it had required all their father's and grandfather's love to assure him he was safe, safe from that bane, safe from everything, including judgement and deeds.

Frerin still remembered it – the way Thorin had struggled against their words, the way he had been so _determined_ not to let anything atone for what he did, in that stubborn way of his...

“I _knew_!”, he had spat, his voice so raw the words had sounded like blood. “I knew, and I still _failed_! I was there, I swore... I swore to myself that at least, it could serve as a lesson – that I could gather some knowledge from it so as to shield myself... That it would make me strong...

\- You have been strong. You have always been strong”, Thráin had replied, quietly, but Thorin had just pushed him away.

He had run out of their Hall, his face pale with the effort of not crying out loud, and Frerin had had to watch him run, run, between endless Columns, searching for an escape, desperately throwing himself against unopened windows, not knowing where he was, where he headed to – like a desperate, caged Raven, so determined to hurt himself.

In the end he had slumped down on the marble floor, breathless and exhausted, his knees dragged up, his arms tightly folded around his chest – and it had startled Frerin to see how young he looked, like this.

Thorin had awoken just like every other Soul, in the shape he had felt most whole during life – and it had almost broken Frerin's heart to see that of course, of course... Of course Thorin would wake like a young Dwarrow, his left arm unharmed, his hair black and his body slim, perfectly balanced yet not entirely hardened, having barely reached adulthood.

He woke just as he was, before Azanulbizar shattered him – pushing Oakenshield away, and leaving only Thorin – and the only thing that had kept Frerin from weeping was Kíli's annoyed huff, as he shoved a coin into his palm.

“There, _uncle_ ” - Mahal the pert way that young one had to talk, Frerin was so proud of him - “Here you have it, you were right. I'm sure I'm taller than him now, though...

\- No”, Frerin had said, quietly, looking at his elder brother who was still lying there even as his Soul had shaped itself again, lying there with his eyes closed, his breath leaving his lips quietly as he rested, _finally_. “No one is taller than Thorin. No one.”

But that day – that day of despair, as he watched his brother crumble between the Columns, not even able to cry anymore, just sitting there, with eyes as dead as they all were, actually... That day Frerin had been glad to see this was not true – their grandfather was taller, of course he was, in death he looked pretty much like he had in life, because his happiest time had been with them, as he had told him many, many times, until he believed him.

Thrór was taller than Thorin. Of course he was. He was broad-chested, and strong, centuries having shaped his body while Thorin somehow chose to remain young in death. Young, and soft and fragile enough to allow others to embrace him, at last.

That day their grandfather knelt in front of him – and it was wonderful to watch how death had changed him. How sparkling his blue gaze had become, so warm, and loving, and caring – how gently his hands rested on his grandson's shoulders, stroking them with his thumbs.

“I don't want you to find excuses”, Thorin had whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. “I don't want you to tell me it's not my fault. I don't want to hear it's all right, and forgotten, and that it doesn't matter here. It mattered _there_. It will always matter there, no matter what you say.

\- I shan't speak then”, Thrór said quietly, and he had dragged his grandson against his chest, his arms circling his body, his palms stroking Thorin's back, marvelling at the warmth that radiated from the velvet of his night-blue tunic.

“I have burdened you enough with words.”

It had been strange to watch Thorin cry. Frerin had never truly witnessed it before – he had seen Thorin weep, of course, had even dried his tears more than once. But he had never seen his body abandon itself against another like it did that day – like a small Dwarfling, like a little boy who didn't know how to deal with all this grief anymore.

“I hurt them. I failed them. I made them die.”

His words had been so ragged... There was so much pain, such a grown-up pain in that slender body, and Frerin had known he was talking about their nephews – _their_ nephews, not only his, not anymore, but Thorin had raised them, Thorin had trained them, Thorin had been their uncle, their King and their leader in life, while Frerin had only been a name, and a memory...

“Perhaps... and perhaps not, Thorin. You didn't wield the sword that snatched their lives away... You did not let that Orc roam Ravenhill, and Erebor... And though you may have hurt them – above everything, you have made them feel love, also. Enough love to choose to follow you, with their own free-will. Fight for this world you have always been so determined to shape for the better.

\- I... did not...”

But Thrór had bent his face so that it rested against Thorin's, and in the end Thorin had just cried. So hard his body was shaking, pressing itself desperately against Thrór's until Thorin was so spent he could not even move.

Their grandfather had taken his left hand, cradling it between his fingers.

“Do you resent me for it?”, Thrór had asked, gently, stroking his grandson's hand, and Thorin had turned, slightly, watching his thumb run down his fourth and fifth fingers.

“For all these scars – for all this blood you shed, for your hand, your able hand that should have done nothing else that carving jewels, and playing strings, if I had only been able to protect you better, and to see past fear and greed...?

\- I do not resent you”, Thorin had whispered. “I know what you have been through. I know how hard it must have been... Your father... and your brother...”

He had closed his eyes, but tears had found their way down his cheeks once more.

“They are here. I am with them once more”, Thrór had said, quietly, still stroking Thorin's hand. “It has been hard, aye. But it's even harder to bear Frór's endless teasing. Ever wondered where your brother had his grin from, eh?”

Thorin had not answered, unable to find the strength to smile at his grandfather's light tone, unable to feel anything save grief, and guilt, and shame.

“Do you resent me?”, Thrór had asked again, and Thorin had shaken his head.

“No. I am glad I avenged you. That filth had no right... No right to kill you. No right to think he could... just... _hurt_ you in that way. You were our King – you did not deserve it... You were my grandfather...”

His hands had searched for Thrór's back and he had clung to that body – to his grandfather he had loved and admired so much, before madness unmade him, before he was lost to him... And Thorin had cried, cried at last for all these lost moments, and embraces, and words they never were able to share alive.

“I have missed you. Every day. I wanted you. I wanted you at my side – you and _'adad_... and Frerin... I was so afraid, so afraid to make the wrong decisions... I was just _never_ sure... I just pretended to be...

\- I know. So did I.”

The quiet words had allowed Thorin's tears to dry, at last. He had pulled away from his grandfather and had looked at him, meeting Thrór's gentle smile that was still so new to him.

“Didn't expect that, eh, grandson? Neither did I. Learnt it here. Felt better afterwards. So will you.

\- I will not. Never.

\- Of course you will...”, Thrór had said gently. “Don't tell me you won't. A Soul so strong and generous that it managed to forgive me will achieve that, surely.”

He had cradled his grandson against him, smiling at these last, stubborn words – Thorin was such a child, when it came to forgive himself, just like he used to be, and he did not know what feeling prevailed between sadness and pride... In the end he'd just allowed himself to feel joy, joy because he had him there, at last, and because he loved him so much that words failed him.

“Come, Thorin. Let me bring you back.”

Thorin had not moved, for a while. But then he had nodded, quietly, and let Thrór drag him up. Only to sag against him, his knees failing him – for Souls are fragile and do not endure as much as bodies, and he had spent its still scarce strength in his grief.

And so Frerin had watched his brother being picked up like a child, his head resting against Thrór's shoulder, his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. Watched Thorin close his eyes, his cheeks still wet, his breath however calming down as Thrór walked, quietly, between the Columns, bringing him back to their Hall and his room.

Frerin had followed, quietly, and he remembered that evening where he had watched his brother sleep once more, exhausted beyond measure, his dark hair spread on the pillow and his hands clenched even in slumber. He had pressed his body against his back, feeling the sharp line of Thorin's shoulder-blades, and had smiled for himself when he had heard his soft groan, pleased by that unexpected warmth.

Thorin had mended.

Sometimes the way he looked up at him and smiled, silver and blue mingling in his eyes, made Frerin's breath catch, thinking he'd never tire of such a sight. Never tire of hearing his deep voice rise, as his fingers played harp strings once more, that day both Dís and his mother asked him for it.

A lot of the Dwarrows in the Halls had come nearer to their rooms that day, eager to let that sound meet them as well, and the cry of _'Maihrim!'_ had rung like thunder once he had finished, causing Thorin to flinch, and then to laugh, quietly.

Happily. Putting the harp away and nestling in their mother's arms, his hands covering his ears so as not to hear her praise, claiming she was biased and not caring for the nudge it brought him.

There was only Dwalin missing. Especially now that Dáin had turned in, already decades ago.

Just Dwalin, and that day – that day Dwalin had finally come and he had barely needed any slumber to recover, because his life had always been spent fully in the present, whole and truthful, always acknowledging each and every one of his feelings. Never lying.

He had woken up almost at once, and had been nearly buried under his parents' and Balin's embrace. Had laughed, amazed to see that he was no longer an old, whitened Dwarf – the last of the Company still alive, his brown eyes the only harbour of long-pasted memories – but a strong, tall Dwarrow who had his hair, his _'adad_ , his _'amad_ and his brother back.

“Still following him, eh?”, Balin had smiled, his eyes winking in the way Dwalin had always loved so much, but this time he had not picked up the joke and had just pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, pressing his forehead against his.

“You silly old fool...”, he growled. “Told you not to go.

\- Aye. You did”, Balin said quietly, and Dwalin just pulled him against him, telling him silently it did not matter, because they were together again and that nothing, not even a Balrog, or years of being on their own, would ever part them again.

It took Dwalin a while. A while to get past all these greetings, all these loving souls that massed themselves around him, the whole Company among them, causing him to blush.

A while to dry his tears, when he was finally able to hold Fíli and Kíli against him, and to tell them he was sorry – that he had missed them and had never stopped grieving for the loss of light and laughter their deaths caused, his tears only stopping when they keeled him over, and started a mock fight against him, pretending to be able to silence him.

A while longer even to let go of Dís – because she still was his One, even though he'd never dream to snatch her away from Jóli. Time had helped softening that wound long ago – besides, he’d always had mixed feelings, too complicated to make him able to choose anything else than remaining where he was. At Thorin's side – not bothering to find out if he was searching for Dís when he was with him, or for Thorin when he looked at her.

They had been close, the last decades of her life.

Companions in grief, but also something like what they used to be, even as the soul truly binding them had gone – for it had always been Thorin. She knew he searched for him, for his warmth and his strength, whenever his hand rested upon her forearm. And he knew she thought only of him, whenever she allowed her head to rest against his chest – letting his fingers reassure her. Yes, he had been tended to, no – he had not been alone. And neither had her sons. Neither had the lads, _mamarlûna_ , neither had the lads.

It took Dwalin a while. To see that the only Soul that was missing at his side was Thorin, just as if he had never died and was still there, on this Earth, thinking of the moment he'd finally join him.

He found Frerin – and he crushed him against his chest, delighted to meet that grey gaze once more, to see his pearl-white teeth as he laughed, shaking himself free once he realised Dwalin had something to ask.

“I know where he is”, he said, quietly, and when Dwalin looked at him he smiled, somewhat sadly, and took him by the hand.

They find him there, indeed.

Standing close to this Lake, or Mirror – Dwalin would not know, and he doesn't really care, all he cares for is Thorin, all he yearns for is Thorin.

He is there, and Dwalin cannot believe to see him like this. Standing tall, clad in black, silver and blue, just like the day they truly met – yet older. Just a bit, though. He's still a Dwarrow, Dwalin realises, and he looks so handsome, slender yet strong, his dark hair floating on his shoulders, his braids tightly woven, but more elaborated than he remembered them – no doubt his mother played a part in that, or perhaps it was Frerin...

He's a Dwarrow, like he used to be before war started. Before he was forced to fight, and shield himself, before his grandfather died, before it began, the nightmare of seeing him harden, slowly, as his beloved ones were snatched away from him, one after the other.

Before the burden of leadership was thrust on his shoulders once more, before he started to shrink away from Dwalin's touch, the closeness between them taking decades to achieve once more, just because Thorin thought himself unworthy. Because he became even more silent than he already was, because the boy was choked by the warrior, leaving Dwalin to grieve for him, privately.

It is Thorin – his shield-brother, his cousin, his best friend, and his King. But it is also his _mamarrakhûn_ , and his sparrow – and it means the world to Dwalin to see that, just like him, his Soul was happiest then, not when he was a child, but in Dunland, when Dwalin was also there, with him. At his side, still full of hopes and dreams.

Thorin looks at the Lake, and he's so intent at it he doesn't notice them. True, they round him – actually Dwalin rounds him, and Frerin leaves, telling him in a whisper he doesn't want to intrude.

And Dwalin's feet are silent – Mahal, it's a good and unused feeling, to be able to walk without _any_ noise, even broad-shaped and big-footed as he is.

He rounds his friend, because he wants to surprise him, because he also wants to know what it is he's staring at, what kept him from joining him, Durin's beard – it has been one hundred and seventy-one _bloody years_...

Thorin is standing very upright, but he has one arm drawn against his chest and he's breathing in a strange, uneven way. His other hand hangs loosely at his side, and it's only when Dwalin is inches away from him that he understands, from the slight shake of his shoulders, that Thorin is weeping.

His friend is weeping, yet it doesn't prevent him from staring at the Lake, his eyes bright and burning even as he does, and Dwalin frowns as he walks closer, silently, determined to see what it is that causes Thorin such pain.

He freezes, when he sees the clear water unfold, only to reveal himself. His old, thin and battered body, that has been cleaned and clad into the emerald-green he has always favoured, especially in his eldest days, when he had the luxury to choose...

The lad watching over him is not a lad anymore – yet Dwalin has never stopped calling him like that. He said _lad_ , or _laddie_ , because he has always felt older, because these are words he loves, and has used with Fíli and Kíli, and Gimli, without ever tiring of them.

He also said _lad_ so as not to say his name aloud. Because there cannot be another Thorin for him, never – and the lad always understood, and never resented him for it.

“I don't look a bit like him, anyway”, he used to say, merrily, so as to cheer Dwalin up, and Dwalin could not help to agree.

Aye, there is not much of his Thorin in that little Stonehelm – except his stubbornness, of course, but that is not very specific when it came to Durin's line... He has Dáin's fiery hair, and brown eyes, he is not really tall – and he loves to laugh.

But he is also brave, and gifted with his uncle Dwalin's and his aunt Dís' even arm-strength. He is a fierce and dangerous warrior, because he had trained with the best, and is now a loving father – soon a grandfather, even...

And now he is standing close to Dwalin, his old and beloved uncle, watching over him as custom requires, just as Dwalin has done with Thorin – and Dwalin cannot help to think that it all looks like tiny links of the same chain...

_Thorin watching over Dwalin who once watched over Thorin..._

His little Stonehelm is standing there, and his hand rests against Dwalin's shoulder. He is stroking it, every now and then – and tears fall slowly down Dwalin's cheeks when he realises that the lad is humming, quietly.

Melodies that Dwalin passed on to him, on those nights where he would ask about his other uncle, the one he shares names with – but not burdens, thank Mahal... No grief or guilt for his little Stonehelm, he made sure of it...

He's not sad, that's what is so wonderful. His Stonehelm is smiling, stroking his shoulder, and Dwalin knows it is because he is aware that it is all Dwalin has ever wanted. It fills him with so much joy that it takes him a while to come back to Thorin. His Thorin.

Still standing here, alone and weeping, watching another taking care of Dwalin.

Probably feeling he should have been there, and unable to witness the unthinkable for him – his Dwalin dead, a fragile, unmoving body when there had been so much strength, and life for him to cling to, and to love...

It is strange, to see himself stretched there, and to know he actually is _here_ , inches away from Thorin. It is also strange to see his friend grieving for him like that, when Dwalin has often thought – and even _hoped_ – that Thorin has forgotten him, has forgotten these years where he has been striving so hard, and that he has lost himself in well-deserved rest.

It has been one hundred and seventy-one years, after all.

But as Dwalin lets his gaze wander upon Thorin – his Thorin, his _mamarrakhûn_ , his cherished sparrow, so brave, intent, loving and so stubbornly faithful... He realises he has not done him justice, and that even there, in death and peace, Thorin has never stopped missing him, the ache Dwalin felt in life shared here, in the Halls of Mandos.

And so he does what he has dreamt to do, for all these decades, ever since he has had to part from him, and let him precede him on this last journey...

He steps forward, and his arms slide around Thorin's waist, pushing his hand away from his ribs so that he's the one crossing arms on his chest. He drags him against him, even as Thorin flinches and staggers, and ends up struggling, as always. He holds him against him, and his eyes fill with tears when he feels his warmth, the way he breathes and the frantic beat of his heart.

But he doesn't cry, he just allows his head to crash upon Thorin's shoulder, making sure to graze his cheek with his coarse hair, now that he finally has it back, and then he huffs, amused, straight into his neck.

“You _do_ realise it is _absolutely_ ridiculous? To weep for the old, toothless fool I have become, when we can have so much _fun_ here?!”

The sound Thorin makes rips his heart open. He has stopped struggling, he's leaning against Dwalin, heavily, and he still doesn't turn, but his breath is actually tearing his chest apart. It enters his body with a ragged sound and leaves it with a desperate, broken moan – and he's shaking, shaking so badly that they soon have to slide on the ground, Dwalin still holding him tightly.

They both weep, not looking at each other, not until Thorin's shivers ebb, not until he stops making these terrible sounds that tell of decades and decades of missing each other. And when he turns he does it like he did when they were young, fiercely dragging his arms around Dwalin, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder, his finger clenching his tunic tightly.

They don't talk, not that day. They don't have to. They just sit close to that Lake, holding each other tightly, not even looking at each other's faces, and time comes to a standstill as Dwalin realises he's full – that there is not an inch of grief and mourning left into him.

He hopes Thorin feels the same. He's not sure – his friend always had a tendency to blame himself for everything, and there is a fair chance that it will start one last time, the business of telling Thorin he has always been _exactly_ where he wanted to be, at his side, bless Durin, even in the Halls of Mandos.

He stokes Thorin's hair, and smiles when he feels his friend get heavier against him. He has missed that so much – to feel Thorin fall asleep against him, a mute proof that he feels safe, all that Dwalin has ever wanted him to be.

He strokes his hair, and when he's sure Thorin is so fast asleep that his movements won't rouse him – not here, where he has nothing to fear – then he gently shifts Thorin's weight and lets him slide down on the ground, so that his head rests in his lap once more.

His face is exactly as he remembers – so handsome it seems carved into marble. His eyelashes are still wet, and this time Dwalin allows his fingers to ghost upon their dark curve, knowing Thorin won't mind. They are not lovers, they are not One – they are less than that, and so much more than that, and he knows he is allowed, that Thorin has always liked the touch of his fingers against his skin, especially when he's asleep, because it helps to settle him.

His nose is sharp, always has been, and his lips are half-parted in sleep – not bloody this time, thank Mahal, gently allowing his breath to leave them, quietly, and to meet Dwalin's fingers for whom this is pure bliss. His beard is short, as always, and this is also something Dwalin loves, now that every danger is passed, because it allows him to have a better look on his face.

So peaceful. So young – seemingly unblemished, and yet Dwalin knows this is not true, that Thorin remembers everything and harbours every memory, good and bad, shielded in his heart, in his Soul that is sleeping once more, because it is finally whole.

Just like Dwalin's is.

He's exactly where he wants to be. And as he watches his little Stonehelm hum, guarding his last sleep with the quiet knowledge that he's at peace, as he holds his Thorin close, his fingers lost in his dark curls, that is what Dwalin whispers, close to the Lake he will return to alone, every now and then, without Thorin whose watching hours are over at last.

He is, finally, _exactly where he wants to be_.

**Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _Bahazanâsh_ : Ravens

\- _Maihrim_ : be praised.


End file.
